


Saying Goodbye

by type_40_consulting_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2105007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/type_40_consulting_detective/pseuds/type_40_consulting_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hung his suit carefully on the wardrobe door to air it out. Tomorrow, he would put on his suit, straighten his wretched tie, and watch the only man he ever loved marry someone else. Tonight he had to say goodbye to his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saying Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beautifullyheeled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/gifts).



> Happy late birthday to [beautifulyheeled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled), my fellow angst whore.

Sherlock hung his suit carefully on the wardrobe door to air it out. Tomorrow, he would put on his suit, straighten his wretched tie, and watch the only man he ever loved marry someone else. Tonight he had to say goodbye to his dreams.

Sherlock lay in bed on his back, knees bent and feet flat. His fingers were steepled below his chin, and his eyes were shut tight. Sherlock in his mind palace, however, lay on his stomach in front of the fireplace, feet up and ankles crossed. It was a childlike pose, but he felt young and vulnerable tonight.

Sherlock’s John room was a blend between the living room of 221b and a hotel room they shared in Dartmoor. Everything smelled rich and warm and acrid, like tea, fires, wool and burnt gunpowder. The shelves were filled with oddities, and touching each one transported Sherlock to a moment in time, frozen exactly how he had experienced it. He pulled down a large leather bound book from a middle shelf and parked himself in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock flipped through the journal in his mind, though it was almost more of a scrap book. Pictures and small trinkets littered the pages along with his own handwriting, documenting his study of one John Hamish Watson. The first entries are abrupt, emotionless records of details. Four weeks later, they have become multiple page long, embarrassingly sentimental rambles. Sherlock reread every page, touching every moment, from the first moment at Bart’s to the failure of a stag night.

When the book is finished, Sherlock slid it lovingly back into its spot. He Lifts the jar of marbles, large, heavy, and nearly spilling over, and brings them to his spot on the floor. He pulls out a bright, silvery one, and the song started to play from unseen speakers. It was playing in the taxi the first time he shared on with John.

_I might have to wait, I'll never give up_

_I guess it's half timing and the other half's luck_

_Wherever you are, whenever it's right_

_You'll come out of nowhere and into my life_

_And I know that we can be so amazing_

_And baby your love is gonna change me_

_And now I can see every possibility_

When it finishes, Sherlock smiled sadly. Basic Top 40 trash, nothing complex or satisfying, but he’s never been able to delete it. The next marble is a deep irish green, and Sherlock lays back to enjoy the moment. He can hear John singing in the shower, with pauses to rinse off his face. The notes and lyrics are comfortable and easy for John, as if he’s sung it for years and years.

_We were halfway there when the rain came down_

_Of a day -I-ay-I-ay_

_And she asked me up to her flat downtown_

_Of a fine soft day -I-ay-I-ay_

_And I ask you, friend, what's a fella to do_

_'Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue_

_So I took her hand and I gave her a twirl_

_And I lost my heart to a Galway girl_

Each marble started a new song, and it’s an eclectic blend. Half remembered folk songs sung by a drunken John on his way up the stairs from a pub night. Violin pieces Sherlock wrote for John’s ears only when the nightmares had taken there hold again after the pool. Love songs Sherlock heard on the radio that suddenly made far too much sense for his own comfort. The last few marbles were still in the jar when Sherlock started sobbing, wrapping himself up in a cable knit blanket the color and pattern of John’s terrible porridge colored jumper. He took this time, not holding back. Tears ran down his face and on to his pillow where he lay on his bed as well. Crying on the inside and the outside.

Sherlock reached for the jars, and the last threes marbles spilled out across the floor. One rolled to his fingers and touched his bare skin.

_And I am feeling so small_

_It was over my head, I know nothing at all_

_And I will stumble and fall_

_I'm still learning to love, just starting to crawl_

Sherlock turned towards the marble, transfixed by it. It wasn’t a single color, but a bubble of memory. It projected on it’s curved surface the evenings he longed to forget, but couldn’t bring himself to delete.

Sherlock watched himself dance with John, who was all fumbling limbs and nervous energy the first time they tried. He watched John dip him, and lean low over his body. He watched himself kiss John like he had wanted to a thousand time, a chaste brush of lips. John froze and Sherlock was afraid he’d be dropped to the floor.

_Say something, I'm giving up on you_

_I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you_

_Anywhere I would've followed you_

_Say something, I'm giving up on you_

After a heavy, strained silence, John eased Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock babbled something about being in character, obviously. John looked at the wall like it held the secrets of the universe. He grabbed his coat, and talked about how late it was getting and Mary waiting up for him.

Sherlock put out the fire in his John room, leaving the marbles strewn on the floor. He locked the door behind him and chucked the key out a nearby window, into the moat. He walked through the hallways, forever changed after the night with a pill and a gun. He longed to burn the whole wing down, but couldn’t do that either. He could hear Mycroft calling to him from the other side of the palace, scolding him. _“Weak, foolish little boy.”_

Sherlock’s eyes opened to find the sun peeking just over the buildings and coming into his room. A few more hours left. He rolled to his side, facing away from the light, and willed himself to sleep, even just a little. Today would be hard enough.

_I will swallow my pride._

_You’re the one that I love, and I’m saying goodbye_

 


End file.
